quotation
by Nylex
Summary: In which Severus is a writer, Hermione is his editor, and the two of them fall in love without ever realizing it; it just sort of happens, like rainy days and falling asleep. [AU][Sevione]
1. I

**quotation  
**[1]

* * *

He's magic.

She's certain of it.

There have been only three opportunities where she saw him actually write, sitting down hunched over a typewriter and clicking away. He's so tall, and built completely of angles, like an overgrown bird of prey; his jutting fingers snapping over the keys, pouring his ideas onto paper in a torrent of words. Hermione imagines she can _see _him thinking, see that enormous brain clicking and whirring like a machine. Each time she's felt a surge of privilege, as she knows Severus despises people watching him write. It makes him feel self-conscious.

"Your copy, Miss Granger," Mr. Snape says almost dismissively, handing her the thick manuscript. Hermione tucks a fluffy strand of hair behind her ear and hefts the thick wedge of neatly typed paper, eyes already scanning the title page.

Right on schedule, as usual. S. T. Snape never misses a deadline. "You fixed the middle bit?" she asks, flipping through the pages and skimming.

"I reworked it somewhat. And if you ask me to rewrite the chase scene again I shall burn the entire novel."

"It would save us both a bit of time," Hermione quips, and shoves the manuscript in her bag. "Right, don't forget about your classes, you have—"

"A morning lecture, I know. Insolent little brats."

She smiles. "I was once one of those brats, Mr. Snape."

"You were never a brat. A wholehearted, overly-enthusiastic nuisance, a busybody and a know-it-all, determined to flaunt your knowledge in front of your classmates like a well-trained peacock, that's what you were."

"Which is why you hired me, Mr. Snape."

"Precisely. Work on that manuscript right away, Miss Granger, I'd like to see it by this weekend."

* * *

She runs his life, if just a little bit. Mr. Snape is an intensely proud and organized man, keeping his life determinedly in check. But there are little details which get lost in the shuffle, and she thinks they get squirreled away inside his brain. Lost, somewhere, like a paperback in a library. So she sorts through his mail and post-it notes and brings him coffee, and makes sure his newspaper subscription is paid on time. Little things. Little tricks and tips of the business, which keeps the authors happy.

But the real perk of the job is seeing his mind at work.

The first draft of his books is always her favorite—obviously they need work, otherwise she would be irrelevant. But the public doesn't get to see the prickly, choppy, run-on first draft, they only see the sleek finished product. So as Hermione cuts down sentences and reshapes his prose, it gets a little cheaper. A little closer to mass appeal. His first copy is always rough and sometimes achingly _raw_, like the words are striking her in the face with their abruptness. She tries to keep these flavors in his books, but sometimes it doesn't always come through.

She remembers the first bad review Mr. Snape ever got. "Overly slick and polished," the critic yowled, "with the perfunctory emotions and results of two robots saving the world."

Mr. Snape had read it, torn the newspaper in several pieces and then fed it into the fire. "Moronic," he remarked idly, but she could tell by the way his jaw tightened that the reviewer had gotten to him. He didn't write for weeks, and finally Hermione's boss, Oliver Wood, sends her down to his flat with a cup of coffee.

"See where his head is at," Oliver ordered, and Hermione did just that; she talked to him and was rewarded with one of Mr. Snape's rambling, burningly angry rants.

"There's something masochistic about writing," Severus said, pacing his living room, long black hair falling into his eyes. (He hasn't had a shower in days, Hermione can tell.) "At first, you write because there's nothing else to do. It's boredom spilling out of your ear and onto some paper, with a few brain cells mixed in. And then some poor bastard comes by and says he likes it. Well, then, you're buggered. Because now you're writing for _him_. Or perhaps the poor bastard _doesn't_ like it, and says so—then you write for him anyway. Regardless, you're never writing for _yourself_, only the dunderheads who buy your sodding trash. You become a whore for your own words, writing what people will buy and read."

Hermione had brewed him some strong tea and sent him into the bathroom to shave and shower. When he emerged, wearing a bathrobe and looking much fresher, she answered, "Don't write for the critics, Mr. Snape, because they're just doing their jobs. Same as you. Fill your roles, and then let the public act out the play."

* * *

The first time Hermione had ever read one of his books, it had been in an airport. She had picked it up from the little bookstore there, surprised at the name on the cover. Was it her old professor, from back at Hogwarts University? Curious, she began reading. She sat with her luggage at her feet, and promptly missed her flight.

His writing was _astonishingly_ good. Sharp and funny and filthy at times, the prose was witty and scathing of politics and people. It came across very strongly that the main character (and perhaps the author) hated society as a general rule, and by the end of the book Hermione was feeling rather snobbish herself.

But the plot was thin. He became too wrapped up in his own intelligence, rambling and turning, monologuing with no real purpose. Clearly his editor was either high as bollocks or thought a slapdash job was being "_avant-garde"_; either way, the editor in Hermione's mind was screaming.

When she saw the little book-and-skull logo in the upper left corner of the binding, naming the publisher as Knockturn Publishing House, she phoned her boss immediately.

"S. T. Snape," Hermione had reported breathlessly into the receiver.

There had been the sound of papers shuffling. "Uhm…yeah, here we go. He's a new author picked up a few months ago. Normally he does stuff in journals. He's a scientist, I think."

"Have you read his book? _Quotations and Expectations_? It's brilliant."

"I know, that's why I've got Trelawney doing his books. He's going to get shortlisted for a Booker if he keeps this up, his stuff is great."

(Trelawney was a completely looney partner of the publisher, who was practically a relic and had oddly specific ideas about copyediting. Hermione hated her sometimes.)

"No," Hermione had argued, "his work _could_ be great. But the editing, it's…it's loopy. Trelawney is fantastic, don't get me wrong—" (_Lies, all lies)_ "—but it isn't suited for his writing. He needs someone firmer and with more guidelines, he monologues all over the place and his sentences last for nearly a paragraph."

"It adds character," Wood pointed out.

"It's confusing. Let me take a crack at it, _please_. Let me edit someone with a _brain_ for once."

There was a rush of static into her telephone as Wood sighed. "I don't know, Hermione…"

"_Please_, Olly? Just think about it."

"I'll think about it," Oliver said halfheartedly.

* * *

When Oliver didn't get back to her, Hermione cut out the middleman.

She had reread _Quotations and Expectations_ several times, with an almost feverish obsession mounting. Her criticisms against the book mounted ever higher, while the praise for his actual writing became an insurmountable pile. Snape was _genius_, and Hermione was nearly positive it was her old Chemistry professor, the one she had feared and loathed the most. He was a terrifying man, from what she remembered, but the elegance of his writing was really something to behold.

So when Mr. Snape came into Knockturn Publishing for his scheduled monthly meeting with Trelawney (Trelawney didn't make housecalls), Hermione pounced.

He came out of Trelawney's office looking sour and ill tempered, but this didn't stop Hermione as she hurried across the room. "Mr. Snape!" she called out in a hushed voice, causing him to turn around.

It _was_ her old professor. He was tall and thin, dressed entirely in black, and had long black hair which curtained sharp, strong features which could only loosely be described as handsome. His intelligent black eyes bored down at her, and she quavered a little internally.

"Mr. Snape, I…I've read your book," Hermione squeaked, fumbling, holding up her dog-eared paperback copy. "I…I picked it up at the airport."

A beat. And then, "How fascinating."

"Oh! I'm so sorry. I'm Hermione, Hermione Granger. You probably don't remember me, but—"

"You were a student of mine," Severus said dryly. "I believe I remember your left hand better than anything else, since it was constantly waving in the air during my lectures."

Hermione went entirely pink. "Yes, um, well—"

"Nearly perfect grades across the board, as I recall," he continued, "and yet you end up here, at a second-rate publishing house with minimum wages and a terribly awful taste in carpet décor."

The carpets were rather lurid and floral-smelling, but that was beside the point. "Ignoring the state of these carpets, I wanted to talk with you about your books," Hermione persisted.

"What about them," he said shortly.

"I want to edit them."

Snape stopped walking and turned to her. "_Why_," he asked, with little patience, "would I give a menial copy editor like yourself the ability to edit my work when I have a senior partner currently proofreading them?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Because I'm an excellent editor, I've been working here at Knockturn for three years now, your writing is brilliant but sadly misshapen, and I was the only one to get a passing grade on your lab practical midterm, sir."

There was a long, evaluating moment of silence, and then Snape's lips turned upwards in a ghost of a smile. "Remarkably confident in your own abilities," he noted, "or perhaps just idiotic."

Before he walked away, he threw over his shoulder, "I'll let you look at one or two of my works tomorrow. I'll mail them."

* * *

And so began their business relationship.

"You'll have to rework this whole chapter."

"_Why._"

"Because it's shit."

"Elaborate, if you will."

"Your main character shows a completely inhuman reaction to this entire scenario. If I were to walk in on my lover murdering my father, I would possibly scream or beat him senseless with the nearest blunt object. I wouldn't just run away screaming. Not to mention Stephen stands in the doorway for _ages_, just watching his girlfriend execute his father. Thinking about the Royal Family, I might add."

"It works in _context_," Snape snarled moodily.

"There is no context! You gave yourself a scenario, stick with it! Stay with the action, follow the pacing you set up for yourself. It flows along quite well until this chapter where it just smashes to a _halt_."

"Precisely. It's a turning point in the series."

"Then make it _feel_ like a turning point. Stop being a child."

"I find it ironic that a woman fifteen years my junior is lecturing me on immaturity."

"I find it funny that a man fifteen years older than myself is pouting in his armchair like a _twelve _year old." She tossed a ream of fresh paper in his lap. "Get cracking, your deadline is in two days."

* * *

_Something that bit me on the ass and refused to let go. Rated T for now but will probably go up in later chapters, since I'm practically physical incapable of writing something without sex. _**-nylex**


	2. II

**quotation  
**[2]

* * *

It happens every so often. Writers are, by and large, a remarkably moody breed, and once in a while, they would drop off the map. No calls, no mail, no returned responses. And since deadlines happen regardless of one's emotional state, it was usually up to the editor's job to go over to their house and baby them for a few hours. Hermione, being three years in the business, had only done two of these types of house calls, both to a charmless woman named Umbridge who wrote the most hilariously bad bodice-rippers Hermione had ever read.

This time, it was for Mr. Snape. She knocked on the door twice, peering through the peephole. His house seemed like an extension of himself; dark, shuttered, and tilted oh-so-slightly to the left. His lawn was rigidly manicured despite the sheer volume of writing he got done every week. But abruptly, towards the end of January, he stopped writing altogether.

Hermione's breath clouded out in front of her. "Hello?" she called out. "Mr. Snape, I know you're home. Your car's still in the driveway." She stamped her feet on the icy, unshoveled steps. "It's quite cold outside, so anytime you'd like to let me in, that'd be lovely."

There was silence.

Finally, she heard muffled, stumbling steps, and the sound of glass smashing. She flinched.

The door swung open with a bang and Severus—_oh God, what was he wearing?—_was blocking the entrance, one hand gripping the frame for stability, the other holding a tumbler of whiskey. His crushed velvet housecoat was loosely tied around his waist and he appeared to have little or nothing on beneath it. Surrounded by ice and snow, his vividly pale chest seemed nearly luminescent.

"You haven't written," Hermione said firmly, hoping her eyes were planted firmly on his face because this was entirely too awkward and she couldn't quite see, what with Mr. Snape's chest hair burned into her brain, "or called. So I brought over some cake and thought I'd see what's up."

He snorted. "My editor has turned into my nursemaid."

"Not yet, just a houseguest," Hermione said briskly, stepping under his arm and into the house. "It's quite dark in here, we should open the curtains."

"God no." Severus drained his glass. "It's entirely too bright as it is."

Hermione unwrapped her scarf from around her neck and shrugged off her coat, hanging both by the door. Severus's house was tiny, and the kitchen was but two steps away. Given Severus's disheveled state she expected an untidy mess, but the house was neat as a pin and the kitchen was scrubbed clean. She set the cooling Bundt cake on the counter and flicked on the lights.

Severus sat down on one of his high-backed kitchen stools with a groan. "Once a year," he growled, "I allow myself precisely two days to get royally pissed and then give myself another two days to sleep it off."

It was odd, seeing her stiff, calculating writer completely unbuttoned like this. His hair hung in lank curtains around his face and he seemed…_old_. Tired and lined, like he had lived a thousand years and only wanted a bit of a nap before living out a thousand more.

"It's finished, in case you were wondering," Severus muttered, pouring another drink. "I know that's why you're here, the bloody book. It's done."

Hermione sat down cautiously. "Really? How many pages?"

"Two hundred and sixteen."

The manuscript was remarkably thinner than usual, but they were fully typed pages and contained very few errors. She slid the manuscript into her bag and dismissed it. "Wonderful," Hermione said, cutting a piece of cake. "Why do you allow four days to get pissed?"

Severus tipped the glass back. "Have a drink with me. Provided you're of drinking age."

The whiskey burned, but the cake soothed. Sugar and fire simmered in her belly and she sat with her legs crossed in one of Severus's kitchen chairs. "An anniversary?" she prompted.

He swirled the whiskey around in the glass. Silence reigned.

She closed her eyes and then said aloud, "This is about the dedications, isn't it."

It wasn't a question.

Every single novel he'd ever written. _Every_ one. She had flipped through them all just to check; and seeing the same name made something burn icily in her stomach. Was she responsible for the little softness? The silk through the acidity, the pulled punches in some of his books? The only book which hadn't been dedicated to her was a novella titled _Emerald_, which had been sloppy and unpublished and involved a selfish prig of a narrator who died a gruesome death. That had been dedicated to _James_, and Hermione didn't have to guess much to deduct that Severus didn't think highly of this James person, whoever he was.

Lily. Lily. It had always been _Lily_. Whoever she was, whatever she was to him, all the words he'd written had been given to her, and no matter how much work Hermione put into them, _Lily_ owned them. Sometimes Hermione was curious about the mysterious girl, and other times (during moments of _very_ black reflection) she hated her, in a mild, offhanded way. The kind of hate she invested in rice pudding.

Because it was because of _her_ that he wrote so well. Not out of his own beautiful, genius, crazy brain, but because of her. It came through in every syllable, which was part of what made his work so excusably charming while being so hideously snarky; he was trying to _please_. Like a retriever, in a way.

"Was she your daughter?"

Those black eyes flashed. "Nosy child," he murmured. "No."

"A girlfriend, then."

"Wrong again, Miss Granger. That massive archive you call a brain must be getting dusty from lack of stimuli."

Hermione picked at the icing on the cake. "I'm…well, _whatever_ she was. Is. Whoever she is. I think…she probably wouldn't want you moping about over her, would she?"

He chuckled grimly. "Miss Granger, the amount of things you know about the world is shockingly small. _Any_ person, no matter how selfless or kind, would love to be mourned."

This was new territory for Hermione, and she was wading into quicksand fast. "I know more than you'd think," she persisted.

"_How_?" Severus snarled, a stripe of sudden, vicious anger burning in his eyes. He threw the glass and it smashed into a thousand, sparkling shards. Hermione flinched badly and cowered.

"_How_ would you know a _thing_ about the world? At your age the world is still kind, because you are young and beautiful and devoid from all outer roughage. _Glass_. Unscratched. But as you grow older you'll learn the world is not _protective_ and does not reward those who remain clear and bright, for in doing so they also remain _fragile_. No, the armor you'll learn to accumulate will make you _scratched_ and _clouded_ and _dirty,_ but then you'll be grateful because you won't _break_ like the _rest_ of us."

Hermione was aghast, terrified, and offended all at the same time. "You don't _own_ being wounded, you know," she snapped. "You're not the only one in the world with _scratches_. Yes, I've only been to _two_ schools and I've only had _one_ boyfriend and _one_ job, but I've been heartbroken and clouded too! You don't think I've been disillusioned? I work with moody, selfish authors who sell themselves to the highest bidder and then mope around their homes all day when they lack 'inspiration'. You're fucking selfish! You think you're the only one invested in your stories? That's _shit_! I care about your books, more than yourself, probably, because I make them the _best_ they can be!"

"Uppity little _wench_," Severus snarled. "Get out of my house!"

"Fine!" Hermione shouted, grabbing her jacket roughly off the hook, "But don't come crying to me when your precious _Lily_ doesn't notice all the work you've done for her." She slammed the door hard.

It took her a moment to realize her cheeks were wet.

* * *

"So, that sounds sort of unprofessional," Oliver said bluntly, tapping a pen against his teeth. "I'll bump him back over to Trelawney. She's been salivating to have a crack at him."

"No!" Hermione spluttered. "No! I didn't mean it like that, I just…I wanted to give you a heads up. He was drunk, he was upset, and I shouldn't have pushed. I just wanted to tell you, since he may…he may not write for a bit."

"Exactly," Oliver snapped. "He probably _won't_. Look, Hermione, you gave it your best shot, but he's too _much_ for you. You don't have that much experience under your belt yet. Let one of the partners take over, maybe McGonagall, she'll know how to handle him. It's not your fault. But we need him happy and writing, do you know how _much_ his past three books made?"

Hermione sat back, her eyes stinging. "So you're…_firing_ me?"

"No. Just…giving you a change of pace. All right? Go back to some easier clients. Longbottom's missed you in the printing room, by the way."

She swept up her purse. "_Hermione_," Oliver sighed, looking at her face, "Don't be like this."

"I understand," Hermione said tightly, mechanically, her throat squeaky. "I do. Really."

* * *

Oliver was in a business meeting the next day with the door flew open. His secretary, a frantic looking Hannah Abbott, was scurrying after the tall, imposing figure of S. T. Snape. Snape, dressed to the nines with his hair swept back in a low ponytail, every inch the imperious wealthy author, with his overcoat over his arm.

"Mr. Woods!" Hannah gasped, "I'm _so_ sorry, he wouldn't listen-!"

"It's fine, Hannah, really," Oliver said, wide eyed. "Ah, Mr. Snape…what can I do for you?"

A disdainful curl of his upper lip. "I understand you are changing my editor."

"Well…yes. It's come to our attention that, ah, perhaps something had come between you and Miss Granger that would impede her work."

"You've received some misinformation," Severus said crisply. "In the future, Mr. Woods, I would appreciate not changing my editor without my prior consent, or I shall be forced to take my books elsewhere. My editor and I work very well together, and there has been no change in any of my work. I will send along my manuscript tomorrow morning, and once _Miss Granger_ has edited it then I will expect my paycheck. Thank you, Mr. Woods."

Hermione heard through the office gossip all about it. And inwardly, she thrilled that he had forcefully called her _his editor_.

Because she was. They were a team.

And not even Dedication-Lily could come between them.

* * *

"I need a new idea."

"So think of one. You're excellent at creating them," Hermione pointed out, scribbling a note or two in the margins of his latest short story.

He snorted. "I create_ characters_. Not stories."

"Which are one in the same. The characters make the stories."

"Not strictly true, Miss Granger."

"Your books are fun to read because of the people in them. Not because of the riveting plot or the suspense. Write a character, the rest will come."

Severus set off his Newton's cradle and watched the metal balls click merrily. "The problem with you, Miss Granger, is that you are occasionally too brilliant for your own good."

"Thank you, Mr. Snape."

"It was not a compliment."

"I took it as one."

"Obviously."

* * *

_Really very scattered. Too my of myself came through in Hermione and Severus's conversation, I think; on any given day I can be heard yelling this at myself, taking opposite sides and reducing myself to tears_. **-nylex**


	3. III

**quotation  
**[3]

* * *

Severus's writing was always _good_. It always struck a chord with her, in one way or another; usually it was in ways she didn't particularly like. His work always highlighted the most selfish, narcissistic habits of people and their routines, and there were moments when Hermione felt inherently and despicably _human_. Severus's characters were almost too real to root for, his heroes delightfully flawed and interesting.

And then he started writing _Guillotine._

* * *

_It's not my fault I'm smart, but people act like it is. They make it seem as though I surgically removed a smaller, inferior brain and plugged in some computer. Like I'm _artificially_ smart. I can't afford to feel guilty, but I do anyway—on long days, however, I just glare at them, narrowing my eyes. Do you know how stupid you look? I want to ask them. Yes, I am smarter than you. And I can see all of your flaws, your scars, your stretch marks and your thinning hair. I see it _all_. _

_But then I feel guilty again. So I don't say anything. I smile a little, without teeth, because my front teeth are freakishly large and my eyes squinch tight into my cheeks whenever I do. I'm nice, polite, and sweet to everyone, helpful and considerate; and then they turn around and act as though I'm condescending. _

_Maybe I am._

_I would love to pour out all of my words. Like razor blades or whips, I would love to slice up the people around me—my friends, my coworkers, especially my boyfriend—and tell them what I really think. Sometimes, I imagine the words flying out of me like gunshots. Like one bad insult will kill everyone I love. And then that would be it—I would see the life leave their eyes, like a guillotine slamming down, and I would be friendless. I perpetually straddle a knife, between being kind and being smart, which cuts to my very core._

_I'm a bomb. I'm a ticking time bomb behind glass smiles and dark eyes._

* * *

"You have to finish it," Hermione said breathlessly. The clock on the wall read twelve forty nine, and ticked cheerfully.

Severus arched a bemused brow, leaning back in his chair as he switched the phone to his other shoulder. "It's _rubbish_."

"No, it's…it's beautiful. It's poetic, almost. Your character, Harriet, she's…she _breathes_. She feels real. More so than your other books."

"I haven't figured out the slightest thing about her yet. It was just musings, nothing more."

"Let me come over then. I hate brainstorming on the phone. This book, Mr. Snape, this _book_…it's dripping with potential."

"Don't get sentimental on me, Miss Granger."

"Let me get my coat."

* * *

She pulled on an oversized sweater, loose and stringy from fidgeting with the sleeves, over her white blouse, and then grabbed her old macintosh, which was ugly and black but she didn't particularly care. The rain was hitting hard against the windows, and between that and trying to hop around with one boot on her foot, she didn't hear Ron coming down the stairs.

"Whassup, 'Mione?" Ron rasped, rubbing his eyes. His bright ginger hair was sticking up in all directions, and Hermione looked up.

"Oh! I'm so sorry to wake you," she whispered, as though there was someone else in the house to wake up. "I just…I'm popping over to Mr. Snape's house. We're working on his new book. It's _brilliant_, you should read it—"

"You're going over to his house in the middle of the night?" Ron asked, his eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Well, he doesn't want to finish it, but really, it's _brilliant_," Hermione said fervently. "I'm trying to brainstorm with him, but he doesn't know much about the character yet and needs a bit of a push. Where's my pads of paper, I know I put them down somewhere-"

"Hang on," Ron said, taking hold of her arm, "I don't like this."

Her brow furrowed. "What…why?"

"Going over in the middle of the night, to 'brainstorm'? I don't like it."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. Ron was being ridiculous, this was her _job_. "This is what I _do_, Ron," Hermione said, shaking her head, not understanding. "He'll likely lose his streak by the morning, and when an author feels like writing, you need to strike while the iron's hot."

"_Or_, maybe he realized his editor would come over to his house at the drop of a hat, in the middle of the night, while her _boyfriend_'s asleep," Ron said, bristling. "Don't be fucking naive, Hermione."

Hermione blinked. _What?_ "He's not…what are you _thinking_, Ron? He's not some kind of perverted old man trying to _seduce_ me, we're working!"

"Yeah, a lot more on _him_ than anyone else," Ron jabbed. "You're spending too much time over there, Hermione. Just edit his stuff by mail like you do everyone else."

"He's different! He's a much better author, he needs more work and more attention! This is my _life_, Ron!"

"I thought _we_ had a life! You and me! Remember? Me, your boyfriend? The one you supposedly love?"

Tears stung at her eyes. "_Supposedly?_ I _do_ love you, Ron, I just—"

"I'm just not as important," Ron snapped bitterly. "I get it. Run off to your 'brilliant' professor, don't mind me. I'm just over here being an idiot."

"You're not an idiot, Ron! Stop being…stop doing this! I need to get over to Mr. Snape's house and we need to _work_. I'm sorry if I've been spending too much time with him, I _swear_, but this _needs_ to be done!"

"Fine," Ron snapped, stumping back upstairs. "Do whatever you want."

* * *

Hermione sat in her car and sobbed, resting her head on the steering wheel.

"I hate you! I hate you! I _hate how you make me feel!"_

* * *

"What if…what if Harriet was a…I don't know. An assistant to something?"

"An assistant professor."

"_Yes!_ And assistant professor, for some useless thing, like Latin or History—"

"Or the History of Latin."

"Even better. And the professor's a bit older than her, and he's sort of a dick—"

"Language, Miss Granger."

"Oh shut it, I'm thinking. So she has an affair with this professor, and the whole book can be a war between her niceness and her meanness, and when she's around her friends and her boyfriend—"

"Husband."

"_Perfect_, yes, husband, she's nice and lovely and sweet, but when she's around her professor, she's a horrible snarky mean witch."

"And he likes it, of course. He's done this consistently, with other young girls in his class, corrupted them and turned them into hateful jaded things. Playing with their emotions, he likes it, he feeds of it, rather like a _spider_, but he's fond of Harriet, honestly. Something about her. There's just enough steel mixed with the idealism. He's not doing any of the corrupting, it's all coming from her own inner frustration."

Severus jerked forward and began typing, his bony fingers rattling over the keys, and Hermione sat back, smiling. It was all worth it, kicking the pebble down the hill, watching the idea shape into a story, and the story form into a book. She bit her lip and pulled her sweater over her knees.

The phone had rang twice before morning; both times they ignored it. Instinctively Hermione knew it was Ron, looking for her.

* * *

She pulled into the driveway as the sun rose over the rooftops, and those horridly noisy birds began erupting into song. After six straight hours of brainstorming and thinking, talking out loud and only broken by typing, she was exhausted. They had been running off watery tea and their own ideas; when Hermione left his house, Severus had been typing furiously, ignoring the cold tea at his elbow.

Hermione crawled into bed, fully exhausted, dark circles under her eyes.

"Hey," Ron said beside her.

"Hey," she mumbled.

He linked an arm around her waist and pulled her close. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I'm sorry too," she said tiredly.

He kissed her neck, pushing aside her hair. "Let's have a baby," he crooned. "A boy."

She stiffened. "What?"

"Why not? We've been living together since school, 'Mione. Or let's get married. Let's do something."

He was rambling. She hoped.

Hermione rolled over. "I'm too t-tired, Ron," she yawned. "I was up all night."

"Let's be up all morning," he suggested, biting her ear. "And then we'll sleep this afternoon."

She looked over his shoulder at the ceiling, at the brown water stain on the ceiling, and wondered what had happened to her life.

* * *

_so I kind of broke my fucking hand. It hurts to type all of this. But when you need to write, you need to write; plus I need to update deficiency tomorrow. Enjoy. _**-nylex**


	4. IV

**quotation  
**[4]

* * *

_After he finished, I cried_

_I've never cried after sex, even when I lost my virginity. I thought it was something for wilting flowers and silly, manipulative girls, but something rose within me; he had touched me with _thought_, as though he were testing a hypothesis, like I was his project and his only experiment. I let him kiss me, let him stroke my skin and run his hands through my hair. I'd never felt beautiful before—smart, yes- but never beautiful._

_After I've finished crying like some teenage girl, he smoked. _

_"Care for a fag?" he offered the carton to me, and feeling mature and deceptive and willful, I accepted. He petted me absently, allowing me to fall back on his shoulder and blow smoke at the ceiling with him. I used to smoke. I quit after I met Harold; he says it's a dirty habit, which it is, but when one has an affair, there's no space to quibble._

_"I just cheated on my husband," I said out loud, trying the words on for size. _

_"And you thoroughly enjoyed yourself while doing so." He smirked._

* * *

"You haven't given him a name yet," Hermione noted, curled up in the corner of the settee. She had hijacked his afghan and sat with the manuscript in her lap, her brow furrowed.

She tookto editing at his place, stopping by with greater frequency. Ever since their midnight spit-balling, he grew to rely on her, and Hermione doesn't like editing at the publishing house anymore. Oh, she still goes there, from eight to noon, but the afternoons are her own, and she spends them over Severus's small house, sorting through his kitchen

"He doesn't need a name. He's a metaphor for her unhappiness and frustration." Severus snapped, one leg crossed over the other, smoking. He smoked in small bursts between chapters—it seemed like a nervous habit.

"He's a _character_," Hermione persisted. "All characters need names."

Severus snorted. "I could take _hours_ and explain the precise degree of error in your thinking."

"But you won't, because I'm right. He needs a name."

He groaned. "I'm not going back and inserting a name into all of these pages."

"No, that's my job. But he needs a name first." Hermione poked him with the pencil, smiling in spite of herself.

"Tobias. Tobias Evans." The name fell from his lips, and he brandished his cigarette absently

She paused. "That's…not bad?" Halfway a question, halfway a statement. It was a gentle prod. _Where did that come from?_ mingled with _You can do better._

"I just thought of it now. Use that, if you wish. It will no doubt take away the metaphorical resonance, but then again, I'm only the _author_. What do _I_ know?"

Hermione blew on her tea and arched an eyebrow. "Shut it, Mr. Snape, I don't have time for one of your theatrical tantrums today."

* * *

Her afternoons, sacred things, belonged to Mr. Snape and his ideas. But her evenings, unfortunately, belonged to Ron.

She began to dread going home, crossing over the little bridge which led to their flat. At the stoplight, just before she took the left turn into their street, there was always a split second of contemplation. _Should I keep going?_ And it was rationalized. Hermione would run through a mental checklist of groceries and things that they needed; anything to delay her coming home. But Ron didn't like takeaway, he liked homemade food—it was expensive, and took longer to prepare, but it was easier to keep Ron happy.

And then there were the days when she was simply too tired.

"I don't _like_ takeaway," Ron whinged. Hermione was exhausted from running around all day, being on her feet, and having to deal with one of Umbridge's particularly ridiculous sex scenes, which always tired her. (Sometimes it felt as though _she_ were being deflowered by the racially insensitive Indian with rippling abdominals and shoulder length hair. Umbridge's smut was exhausting to read, mostly because it took up more than half the book.)

"I didn't feel like cooking," Hermione grouched, unpacking the Chinese boxes. "It's takeaway or cereal, take your pick."

Even without seeing him, she knew Ron's face was reddening behind her. "You know, you're not the _only_ one working hard. Do you think it's easy, being out on the streets and taking down criminals? It's not!"

Normally, Hermione would nod and agree, and then scrub some potatoes. But it was late. She was tired. And her feet hurt. Just _once_, she would like a foot massage without asking for it. Or for _him_ to pick up some groceries on the way home, why didn't he ever think of that? He could damn well scrub his _own_ bloody potatoes.

"Oh, _please_, Ronald, all you do is hand out speeding tickets," Hermione snapped, flinging open the cabinets and clattering two plates down on the counter.

"_Speeding tickets_?" Ron choked, sounding as though he werechoking on his own anger. Hermione threw him a dirty look and _slammed_ the takeaway boxes onto a plate, scattering rice everywhere.

"I do a bloody lot more than hand out _speeding tickets_! I don't know why _you're_ tired, is _reading_ too exhausting now? Maybe you ought to just put your feet up and have a night in!"

"All right, I will!" Hermione snarled, throwing her coat onto a chair and storming towards the bathroom.

"Don't you walk away from me, we weren't _finished_!" Ron shouted, seizing her arm. It _hurt_, and the pain was more than enough to snap her out of it.

"Let _go_ of me!" Hermione snarled.

Something was building in her, or perhaps something was being torn down. Her exhaustion melted away in a flash of righteous anger. She suddenly she felt tall, ferocious, unstoppable. Dizzyingly high on her own intellect and rage.

"Don't you _ever_ touch me again, Ronald! I'm not your fucking _mum_, I'm not going to _baby_ you and clean up after you and make your _meals_! You're awful to my friends, you don't like my work, you think that _my world _revolves around _yours_, which it _doesn't_, thank you very much! I've been _everything_ for you, I wrote your papers in Uni, I made the right connections for you in the police academy, I dressed up and put out and scrubbed your fucking floors, all because I liked seeing you _happy_! I don't even have any happiness left for _myself_ anymore! So _fuck you_, Ron Wea—"

It wasn't a punch. Looking back, that's what she became upset over. He had just _slapped_ her, like she was a child or a dog or a misbehaving little girl; as though the slap was just to get her to shut up, and now he was going to bend her over his knee and give her a spanking. If he had _punched_ her, that would have been a different story; then she could have fought back. She would have scratched his eyes out.

But the slap _hurt_. Tears sprang to her eyes. And suddenly she felt small again, cowed and crying and _useless_.

"Don't," Ron said, breathing hard, "_ever_ speak to me like that again."

If he had punched her, she would have fought back.

But he slapped her. So she ran.

It all came in stuttering, jagged, picture frames: grabbing her coat, snatching her keys, pound-pound-pounding her way to the door, breathing hard, flinging it open, tumbling outside. She could hear Ron howling behind her, and it felt as though he were just _inches_ away, like he was the bogeyman or a monster or a rapist, like he would grab her hair and haul her back up the stairs.

_Slip _-crash-fall-_ow_, hitting the banister on the way down. She couldn't wince, couldn't cry, because it would take time she didn't have, and she sort of fell the rest of the way down the stairs. She hit elbows and ankles and everything in between, smashing her cheek something awful. The big red door which led into the building was open, mercifully, with some poor shopper coming inside, and she flew past them, regaining her balance, out into the hot, humid autumn night.

Hermione lunged for her car, stuffing her key in the lock and falling inside, hitting the lock once more.

_Slam!_

Ron's hands were against the glass. Fear, panic, nausea, it all flew up into her face and she jammed her key into the ignition, the car revving to life with a roar, and she bolted away from the curb.

The stoplight, the bridge, she blew past them both, and once she was on the other side, she saw the headlights behind her. Ron was in his own car. He would follow her.

Where to go?

* * *

"He did _what_?"

Harry, looking every inch the tired father, rubbed his hands through his hair. His girlfriend Ginny was patting Hermione's cheek with a wet rag, but Hermione was shaking too badly to be appreciative. Ironically, Ginny was Ronald's sister, which had made Hermione hesitant to come over their house; but Harry was also Ron's boss, so he would understand. She knew Ron was jealous of Harry in a deep, furtive way, but they remained friends since the police academy.

"Did he do all of this?" Ginny spat, looking outraged and hugely pregnant and ready to punch someone. She gestured to Hermione's ripped stockings and bruised knees, and she shook her head.

"No. I fell down the stairs on my way out," Hermione rambled, her voice bizarrely steady. "He didn't punch me," she said again. "He just…just _slapped_ me. Like…like I was…"

"I'm going to punch him," Ginny declared.

"Ginny," Harry began.

"No, I'm really going to punch him this time Harry, I mean it. I'm his sister! I've got a right!"

"You're _eight months_, Gin, if you punch him you'll pop." Harry put his glasses back on and sighed. "He'll be here any minute, if he followed you."

"Don't let him in the house!" Ginny shrieked.

Hermione flinched. Did _all_ of the Weasley's have to yell?

"Relax, Ginny, I'll go talk to him," Harry said tiredly, pulling on a robe. "Fix Hermione a cuppa, would you?"

* * *

When Hermione came downstairs the next morning, Ron was perched stiffly on the couch. He looked awful—there were deep circles beneath his eyes and he looked as though he'd been crying. She gripped the banister stopped on the stairs.

"_Hermione_," Ron breathed, his eyes shining with hurt and hopefulness. He rushed towards her. "Look, don't talk yet, I know I've screwed up, I am_ so, so sorry, _I was just—it had been such a _long_ week, with all the murders going on, and I…I don't know what came over me, 'Mione, I swear to God! I…I don't know what happened or why I…I did that, but…please, Hermione, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

Hermione knew she looked awful. Bruises and pale cheeks and dark eyes. But there was something cold and cruel stealing over her, like frost, and she pierced Ron with her gaze. He looked so small, sad, and broken. Like a discarded toy.

"You're pathetic," she said flatly. "You _should_ be sorry. So should I. I left far too late, I shouldn't have moved in with you in the first place. I'm sorry it came to this. But I want you to know that you're pathetic, Ron Weasley. You're sad and needy and terribly jealous of people who are better than you, and mean well. You hate what you can't have—you can't have Harry's position, my brain, or Ginny's looks. You don't have any of it, Ron, and you don't even have the decency to be a proper literary villain and demand that I come home with you, because that's not the way it plays out in real life."

She brushed past him into the kitchen, where Ginny was waiting, drinking coffee and biting at the bit to yell at Ron. Hermione scooped up her coat and pressed a swift kiss against Ginny's cheek. "Thanks for the bed. I'm off to work."

"Hermione—" Ron started from the hallway, his eyes full of tears.

"Don't," she said coldly, and left.

* * *

_Harold seems passé now, boring and broken and strange. They used to fit together, like two cogs in a clock, but now Harriet feels they fit together too well—she knows exactly what Harold will do, every single day, without fail._

_He'll wake up, brush his teeth, kiss his wife, and leave for work without breakfast. Never mind it's not good for you—he thinks it's manly and it makes him feel powerful, like he's _just too important_ for breakfast. Then he'll work all day at a menial desk job where he has no authority, and then comes home so he can have a bit of authority over his wife. _

_But lately, Harriet stops caring. She stopped thinking about what Harold would be doing, or what would make _Harold_ happy. She wants to make herself happy, first._

_And if making herself happy involves getting her brains shagged out by The Professor ten times in a single afternoon, then so be it._

* * *

"You settled on a name."

"A title, Miss Granger."

She smiled. "I like it. It distinguishes him as a character, a person who could legitimately exist, but his name isn't included because Harriet only knows one side of him, The Professor side. She doesn't know about the other women or anything else. I love it."

Severus leaned back in his chair. "You are remarkably easy to impress today, Miss Granger. I fear that fall you took rattled your brains."

Hermione stretched and set aside the manual. "I…I think it _did_, honestly. I'm making some rather…odd changes in my life and I don't know if they'll actually help me at all."

He arched a brow.

They _never_ discussed personal things. Except for that one time, in late January, when Severus was pissed and angry and morose, they had briefly discussed the dedication. But Hermione never spoke to him about her life, and he never asked questions. It was always about work, always about the writing, how to make it sleeker, wilder, more powerful. Discussions of how to edit things more efficiently, or long arguments about what should be cut out and what should be left were common.

"Oh? What changes?" he queried, sipping at his tea. Bored, nearly. But there was curiosity hemmed in his eyes

She shrugged, trying to play it off as nothing. "I'm leaving…where I used to live. And the people there."

"Would 'people' include that boorish boyfriend who occupies so much of your time?" Severus noted.

She blinked. "Yes."

"Excellent. It was a poor match." He said, setting down his tea and reaching for the typewriter. The room filled with staccato bursts of typing, and Hermione felt an odd sense of peace.

That was it. That was all Ron needed. _It was a poor match_. How fitting.

She picked up her red pen and circled one of Severus's sentences happily.

* * *

_So I have a fricking beta now which is fucking fantastic. I'm so high on oxycodone right now it's hilarious, I can barely keep my eyes open. This chapter was about 90% more incoherent without the help of **araeofsomething**. I'm now going to collapse on the couch and nurse my arm back to health with the assistance of Dexter. ciao **-nylex**_


	5. V

**quotation  
**[5]

* * *

_And I _see him_, see him like I've never seen him before. He's old, so much older than I thought, and he's disgusting. He's kissing the stupid little slut like he's licking the back of her throat, with no finesse or grace at all. Shame and horror swept through me—is that what I looked like, kissing him? I always thought his kisses were magic, tiny love confessions in each meeting of our lips. _

_In the fractions of a second I have left to my own mind, I see the little girl in all of her essence. Nineteen. Young, idealistic, stupid and naïve. Feeling as though she has power over him, like she knows what men think at night, knows that they dream of her breasts and her legs and her tiny, tiny waist. _

_"Professor," I say loudly, no expression on my face, "you have papers to grade_." My tone is flat and cold.

_The little blonde whore jumps a mile high and squeaks, reaching for her blouse which is gaping open lewdly. He's a little slower to react, his hand a little more reluctant to leave her breast. _

_When he sees it's me, I summon every shred of strength I have in me, and look into his eyes._

_His expression changes from shock to fear in a nanosecond, and I become drunk on the exhilaration. He sees me too, sees me for what _I_ am_:_ powerful and dangerous and oh-so-willing to hurt other people. The little monster he fed in my soul has now become a lion and I'm roaring inside, wanting to hurt him in the same way he hurt me. I want to seize his soul and drag it through his chest, dash it against the ground and watch him crawl after the battered thing._

_And I know just how to do that. _

_I reach forward._

* * *

"That's _it_?"

Hermione turns the page over, as if expecting more, but there's nothing except Severus's quick _Fin_ scrawled at the bottom. The last sentence hanging there. She stares at it for a long moment and then whips out of bed, scuffing into her slippers and hurrying down the stairs.

She grabs her keys and heads for the door.

* * *

He answers the door on the second ring, his hair a mess and dark circles under his eyes. His white button-down shirt is rolled up to the elbow and his loose pajama bottoms seem distinctly out of place; Severus raises his eyebrows, taking in Hermione's nightie and flushed face, her scowl and the manuscript in her hand.

"You can't end it like that," Hermione says without preamble. "There's no payoff! What happens to Harriet? What happens to Harold and The Professor? You can't end a book without an ending, Mr. Snape, especially with something like this! How do you expect to _publish_ this?"

"I don't expect to publish it," Severus said flatly. "Go home, Miss Granger."

She stopped short. "No, what? You don't want to publish it? Why…why not?"

"I never intended to finish it. The fact that this novel got this far is astounding—surely you realize the obvious parallels?"

He started to close the door but she jammed her slippered foot in the crack, stopping him short. "_What_ parallels? I don't understand. Why won't you publish it? It's brilliant, Mr. Snape, it really is."

"Harriet is _you_," Severus snapped impatiently, "don't you see? How did you read the entire thing and _constantly_ edit the book without seeing it? I based her entirely off of you. It was a one-off scrap of a story I never intended to show you, but you got your hands on it. That's why you want an ending. I don't know what _kind_ of ending you want, but since Harriet is essentially yourself, you should have no problem finishing the story. I have other things to work on, and I shall call you the next time I begin a novel. In the meantime, you ought to call Mr. Wood and inform him that my latest work is not to be published. Good _evening_, Miss Granger."

The door slammed in her face. Hermione just stood there.

Harriet was herself. The Professor was Mr. Snape. Harold was Ron. He had written a story starring his editor as the main character, and the story was about consistent, illicit sex between himself and his character.

How had she not seen it?

Hours of staying at his flat. Stealing his afghan, making his coffee, fetching his mail, calming down his tantrums, it all fit together in a way she didn't quite understand. She saw Ron's jealous face flash in her mind and remembered his constant needling about their time spent together. Had she underestimated him? Did he know more than she did_? _Had Ron seen things she hadn't?

Heart pounding, she raised her hand to knock at the door.

And then fled.

* * *

"He's _not_ publishing it?" Oliver asks, running his hands through his hair. "Christ. _Christ_, Hermione, what's his game? What's going on? I loved the stuff you sent me, it was great! Did he lose interest, is he thinking of a new story, what?"

"He lost interest in the characters," Hermione said quietly. "That's all."

"Get him to finish it," Oliver ordered. "I don't care what you have to do, if you have to stay there for a week and cook him pancakes, but _keep him writing_. The world expects a new book! I leaked two chapters of it to the Harvard newsletter, he's _got_ to publish it."

"He won't finish," she insisted. "I don't know if I can make him."

"You've made him finish books for three years, Hermione. You can do this. Have him travel somewhere, find his muse, but we _need_ this book."

* * *

She knocked at his door that evening, and there was no answer.

There were tears working their way down her face, and she knelt at the welcome mat. "I know you're home, Mr. Snape," she said through the mail slot. "Your car is still here."

Silence.

"I just want you to know…I can't finish it. It's not…it's not fair of me to try and write an ending for your story. Harriet is me, I can see it now, and I…I can't write my own story. Because I don't know how I would act, I don't know myself as well as you know me. As well as you know _Harriet_, I should say."

Hermione took a deep breath, and tried to steady her voice. "But I thought you were a bit unfair to yourself. You're not The Professor, Mr. Snape. You're not cold and uncaring and you would never hurt someone the way he hurt Harriet. You care for people, I know you do. You care for Lily, whoever she is. Whatever she did to you. There's too much good in you, Mr. Snape, for you to ever become _The Professor_."

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and turned to sit back against the door. The mail slot was still stuck open, and it was unbearably hot outside; muggy and humid. Her hair was frizzy and sticking to the back of her neck; she let her head fall back against the cool door with a thump.

"I just…I just wanted to say that. In case you wanted a new editor. Because I loved the book. And I thought…I thought you liked Harriet enough to give her a proper ending."

The door was yanked open and Hermione nearly fell inside. Severus loomed over her while Hermione scrambled to her feet, breathless and something expanding in her chest, tight and happy but fearful.

"_Guillotine_ could never have ended the way I wanted it," he said quietly. "The Professor didn't deserve a happy ending."

"But _you_ do," Hermione persisted. "Please. Just think of finishing it?"

There was a long moment of silence, and then Severus sat down on the door frame next to her.

"I was thinking of writing a sequel," he said after a minute. "Following The Professor. Showing his side of the story."

Hermione bit her lip. "Giving him a chance, you mean?"

"A chance at redemption. He'll never be good enough for Harriet but he might try, I think. I think he would try."

Her fingers crept over to his, and rested lightly on his hand.

"I think he would try, too."

* * *

_Guillotine_

_By S.T. Snape_

_-For Miss Granger. As always._

* * *

**Fin.**

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed this story. Quotation was an experiment, hopefully for more Modern-AU Sevione. More praise deserves to be heaped upon **araeofsomething's** head, since she's a darling and a frigging awesome editor. _**-nylex**


End file.
